


When Honor Is All That Remains

by riventhorn



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being enslaved, Esca struggles to adapt to his new circumstances and sort out his feelings for his new master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Honor Is All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended; no profit is being made from this

The Roman tongue beat against Esca’s ears, thick and heavy. Each day, he struggled to make sense of the words shouted at him by the slave-master, knowing that a blank stare earned him a slap or a beating for shirking his duties. He made his own mouth shape the words, forcing them out of his throat. But at night, curled up on his pallet, he whispered the familiar words of his own people to himself, as he lay there alone in the dark. Often he talked to his mother, pretending she still lived. He told her of the strange customs of the Romans, of the things he had seen, here in the south. But often he just repeated words: tree, star, river, rock. And they sprang before his mind vividly as they had last appeared to him in the hills of his home.

Close against his body, he kept his dagger. And yet he did not use it, though opportunities for escape presented themselves. There was no one waiting for him to return. No one hoping that he lived and might come striding down the road one evening, safe and unharmed.

Sometimes he pressed the tip of the dagger against his own throat. He did not know if it was his own cowardice or the will of the gods that made his hand falter.

The months slid past, and he felt the rain and the sun strike his skin, reminding him that he was alive and young and strong. And he felt the kiss of a whip and the pang of hunger and knew that he was a slave. On the days when Esca found himself feeling grateful to his masters for an extra piece of bread, he hated them most of all.

By the time the circus master bought him, he knew the Romans. He knew their language, and their gods, and their short, bitter swords. He watched the fighting in the arena from inside his cell. He watched the Fisher wield his net, whirling it above his head and then snaring his opponent, trapping them like a bird, brought to the earth by a well-aimed stone. And fear grew in Esca’s heart. His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists.

The first day of the Saturnalia games dawned clear and bright. Esca was to fight that day, and he sat by himself, watching the sun as it moved slowly across the stones. Twice, he thought he saw his father, walking past in the crowds. It did not surprise him. The dead often showed themselves to those whose life was drawing to an end.

Good to hold a sword in his hand once again. To feel the thrill of battle, even though it was for the amusement of the crowd and served no greater purpose, his life reduced to an afternoon’s diversion for the citizens of Calleva. But then—then the net wrapped around his legs, and he fell, pressed into the sand, his heart pounding against the earth. The Fisher pressed his trident against Esca’s throat, and his eyes, hidden within his mask, glittered.

Terror trembled through him for an awful moment, and he started to raise his arm, to gesture for mercy. But then he mastered himself and lay still, waiting. He would not beg. Not now. Looking up, away from the man who would kill him, his eyes rested on the crowd. A young man met his gaze. His face was pale and drawn, as though he was ill, but his eyes…Esca read compassion there and understanding. An understanding of what it meant to cling desperately to the last shreds of your honor.

The young Roman lurched to his feet, shouting, his thumb jutting upwards. He kept shouting, berating the crowd, and slowly others picked up the cry. But Esca turned his face away. He did not look at the man again, even when the net was removed and he could stand once more. The Roman had witnessed his disgrace, seen him trussed up in the net like a fatted sheep for slaughter. The shame of it choked Esca’s throat.

He sat listlessly in his cell the next day. The crowds would not want to see him fight again and there was every chance that he would be sent to the mines where he could toil out his life in dust and sweat and a grinding exhaustion. But then the circus master approached, an old man at his side.

“You’ve been sold,” Beppo grunted, opening the door. “Stephanos here will take you to your new master.” He spat on the ground. “Good riddance.”

Esca regarded Stephanos in silence for a few moments, and then slowly got to his feet. Stephanos gestured impatiently for him to follow and scuttled off, like an old goat. He shot sidelong glances at Esca as they walked.

“Why the young master took it into his head to buy you,” he muttered, and then louder, “You will be the master’s body-slave and obey him in all things. He is a Centurion, mind.” Stephanos glared at him and went back to muttering. “The arena is no place to find slaves! But Master Aquila will let him have his own way, no word against it.”

Into Esca’s mind came the face of the young Roman of the day before, and he wondered. “A Centurion, you say.”

“Yes, but injured now. A lame leg.” Stephanos shook his head. “A bad winter it’s been for the young master.”

His name was Marcus Flavius Aquila, and as they stared at each other across the room, Esca thought of what it would have been like to meet this Roman on the field, with both of their swords drawn, the wind in their hair, and the smell of the heather sharp in the sun. They would have been equals, brothers of the sword. Now:

“I am the Centurion’s hound, to lie at the Centurion’s feet.”

*

It was hard, at first, to be part of a household again. To be doing the same things that he had done for his father as his armour-bearer. The ache of loss that had dulled somewhat over the past two years returned, lodged in his heart like an arrow.

But gradually he became accustomed to this place and these people, and the memories faded again. Marcus treated him with a grave courtesy, and Esca came to know his moods. On the days when Marcus sat, looking out over the garden, hearing not the gentle trill of the birds but the sounds of shields clashing and the rumble of chariots over the grass, Esca crouched quietly by him and was there to give Marcus a shoulder to lean on when he hobbled back inside. Other days, Marcus smiled and laughed and teased Sassticca. At those times, Esca stood back, only stepping forward to refill Marcus’s cup or help him fasten his sandals.

He knew that Marcus wanted more of him. It was evident in the way Marcus said his name, not in the dismissive, careless tone he used with Stephanos but instead with a deeper inflection that suggested Marcus thought of things when he called the name “Esca”—thought of the wild cry of the huntsman; a whorl of blue trailing across pale skin; a warm hand on his arm, steadying his steps. Marcus shared the hot cakes Sassticca baked with him, wished him a pleasant sleep before curling into his furs, and made small jokes, his eyes searching hopefully for an answering smile.

Esca understood what Marcus wanted, understood that he was lonely, but it had been a long time since he had been friends with anyone.

Marcus wore away at him, though. He began wanting to ease the lines of pain from Marcus’s face when his leg bothered him, to spare Marcus’s pride through small gestures—fetching him things without being asked so that Marcus didn’t need to stumble painfully down the corridor; setting Marcus’s chair in the sunniest corner so that the warmth might ease his leg. Walking down to the market, he though how nice it would be if Marcus could come with him, and they could talk and laugh over the antics of the young boys sneaking walnuts from the merchant’s cart.

It was because they were both trapped, Esca decided. They had both lost the one thing in the world that had meant the most to them and now drifted, like a leaf caught in an eddying stream.

And so when Marcus bade him go on the wolf hunt, he knew that Marcus wanted desperately to go as well, though he did not say. Rising in the dark morning, his blood already pulsing through his veins, his senses on edge for the chase, he caught the sound of Marcus waking, too. A quiet longing filled Marcus’s voice when he spoke, and so Esca answered, for once not guarding his feelings close, “It is in my heart that I wish the Centurion came too.”

He heard the smile in Marcus’s reply, and when the hunt was finished, and he placed the small wolf cub in Marcus’s arms, and they spoke openly and plainly for the first time, he admitted to himself that Marcus was no longer a master in his mind, but a friend.

*

Esca had known pain before—the ache of bruises, the white-hot agony of a sword thrust—but after losing his family, he had thought that he would never again feel the deep pain of the heart that came when a loved one was hurt or threatened or killed. But as he held Marcus down while Rufrius Galarius’s knives bored into Marcus’s leg, he knew the pain again.

The days after were bad. Marcus trembled with a fever, pale and worn-out, his fingers clutching weakly at Esca’s arm.

“You must come and eat something,” Sassticca coaxed, trying to draw him away from his vigil by Marcus’s bed, but Esca would not leave. He laid a cool cloth on Marcus’s brow, and changed his bandages, and prayed softly to the gods.

On the morning when Marcus’s fever broke, and he blinked up at Esca and smiled, the relief was so intense that Esca had to turn away for a moment so that Marcus would not read it on his face.

“Esca,” Marcus murmured, sounding sleepy, still befuddled by the medicines and pain.

He bent over Marcus and kissed him on the forehead, brushing his fingers through Marcus’s hair.

*

The weather grew cold and wet as they worked their way north, hunting for the Eagle. Marcus did not say much, but Esca could see the eagerness in his eyes, the way he leaned forward in his saddle like a hound on the scent. For his part, Esca felt at ease, content to ride at an unhurried pace, scanning the horizon for a smudge of smoke or the dark silhouette of a herdsman. It was not because he was back among the unconquered tribes, the Roman villas and fields left far behind. He would have been equally content had they traveled across the sea and taken the roads down to the farm where Marcus had been born. Either way, he was by Marcus’s side.

Esca did not like the Phyrgian cap that Marcus wore as part of his disguise, nor the dirty tunic and cloak that soaked up the smell of the fire they crouched around at night. He did not care for the beard Marcus had grown and the reek of the scented oils.

One night, as they lay together, huddled close for warmth, Esca reached out and drew off the silver talisman resting on Marcus’s forehead, revealing the brand of Mithras once more. Marcus looked puzzled but did not protest. He watched silently as Esca untied the cloak and tossed it away.

“There is no wind tonight,” Esca whispered and fisted the fabric of Marcus’s tunic in his hand. “You do not need this.”

Marcus took it off, his mouth curved in a smile, his eyes laughing.

“This I cannot do anything about,” Esca muttered, his fingers tracing the beard, and the laugh burst out of Marcus.

“But this…” Esca touched the ties of Marcus’s braccae, and Marcus went still under his hands.

“You wish to—” Marcus began, and Esca nodded.

Marcus’s eyes were wide. Slowly, he cupped Esca’s face in his hand, thumb brushing against Esca’s mouth. He whispered Esca’s name.

Esca freed him quickly, and his shaft grew thick and hot in Esca’s hand. Marcus moaned softly, his strong fingers biting into Esca’s shoulder. When Marcus’s seed covered his palm, he quickly took out his own cock and stroked it with his wet hand, Marcus watching and gasping, the breath jerking in his chest when Esca came.

They pressed together, and soon Marcus fell asleep, his head resting against Esca’s shoulder. Esca breathed quietly so as not to wake him.

Ever since he had woken up after that last battle to find his hands and legs bound, alive but captured, he had wondered why the gods had spared him. It was a warrior’s fate to die in defense of his people and his lands. It was a fate that Esca had accepted and one he craved, in those dark days when the newness of his bonds chafed his spirit.

But now—now he understood. He had always been meant to find Marcus, to be there to guide Marcus on this journey. He was bound to Marcus, but this bond, Esca treasured. Their honor now rested in each other’s hearts.


End file.
